Table of Contents
Copyright
“A FISTFUL OF DUST”
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Space: 1889 & Beyond—A Fistful of Dust
By Sharon Bidwell
Copyright 2013 by Sharon Bidwell
Space: 1889 © & ™ Frank Chadwick 1988, 2013
Cover Design & Art © Tom Webster and
Untreed Reads Publishing, 2013
Space: 1889 & Beyond developed by Andy Frankham-Allen
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Other Titles in the Space: 1889 & Beyond Series
Journey to the Heart of Luna
Vandals on Venus
The Ghosts of Mercury
A Prince of Mars
Abattoir in the Aether
Dark Side of Luna
Conspiracy of Silence
Mundus Cerialis
Leviathans in the Clouds
The Forever Journey
Horizons of Deceit
http://www.untreedreads.com
“A FISTFUL OF DUST”
By Sharon Bidwell
Prologue
“Phobos, Fearful Son of Mars”
1.
LIGHT AND SHADOW could easily trick the eye. Every painter understood that and while Henry Barnsdale-Stevens was not an artist, the manipulation of form by sketching on a flat surface to create a three-dimensional image had always intrigued him. Just as other worlds intrigued him.
Alone at times with nothing more than a stick of charcoal, some reams of paper and his imagination, Henry had often tried to depict what he imagined the planets in the aether looked like from an age when others considered him far too young to travel any distance on Earth, let alone to the stars.
Now he stood on the dusty surface of the oft-disregarded Phobos, staring at something that not only inspired his creativity, but also left him with numerous questions making him feel many years younger than his seven and twenty.
“Is this what you envisioned, sir?”
The voice of Carstairs, his valet, crackled through the connection in the helmet of his atmosphere suit, a painful reminder of inferior quality. The expression on Carstairs’ face had been a reflection of Henry’s own inner doubts when donning the costume, but he’d come too far to back out. Fortunately, despite his dread of feeble gravity he’d not floated off into the dark-depths of space. Henry wasn’t at all sure he could have resisted the pull of his curiosity had he known such a thing would occur in certainty. Although God forgive him if misfortune befell and he left his darling Elizabeth effectively a widow at heart before they’d even wed.
The monolith was not as Henry’s professor back at Oxford believed an ill-formed “bit of rock” either indigenous, exposed by a passing meteor storm, or the foreign remains of said meteorite. Neither was the object as other learned gentlemen surmised triangular, almost pyramidal. It was not a boulder or a cliff. Not a building, nor a remnant or fall-out of the Stickney crater impact. Henry didn’t know what it was except mysterious and marvellous.
The standing stone’s shape was too uniformed to be natural and the markings on the surface undoubtedly some type of language, though one he could never hope to read. No matter, when the roughly hued depictions were enough to set his passions flowing, his mind expanding with new concepts and ideas of possibilities not present to his senses.
Drawings. There were words and drawings on this stone.
“Sir!” Carstairs’ cry broke into his imaginings. Quite honestly, the man was becoming a pain. The ooft preceding the hiss and clack before communication cut-off made him wish his servant hadn’t come, but the chap had insisted as much as his position allowed. Having attended Henry’s family enough years for there to be an “understanding” of such liberties between them, how did one refuse? Experience had taught Henry to deal with whatever ailed the other man first. Then he could concentrate his energy to gathering as much information as possible before his air ran out.
“Yes, Carstairs, what is?”
Pain stole his words and his ability to complete the turn. Knees buckling, Henry Barnsdale-Stevens was unable even to reflect on the fate of his companion. The sight of the Phobos monolith became once more all-consuming. Henry’s last thought was to wonder whether his helmet would prove strong enough to cope with even a slight collision against the monolith he’d always wanted to see since the first moment he had heard of its existence.
Chapter One
“In Which the Crew Encounter Major Trouble”
1.
THE CHINK OF a silver spoon against china rang out, sounding as sweet as birdsong. Nathaniel pushed the murmur of voices to the aft of his mind, paying them no more attention than he would a bee buzzing; a pleasant backdrop to a summer’s day. Lost to the tang of tannin on his tongue, he sat gazing out from the window of the governor-general’s office of the British colony.
A pleasure to meet Sir Henry Routledge, though the man’s presence was not as pleasurable as the tea, a commodity in which they were in short supply on board Esmeralda 2, and not even the tea was as delightful as being off the ship, and out of the engine room. Although Nathaniel had taken to working as the ship’s engineer more readily than he’d anticipated, the physical reality of his surroundings and the partaking of tea with friends took him back to much simpler times. Happier. This feeling of well-being was amplified by the sensation of gravity (even the lower gravity of Mars), and a warm wind. He’d lost count the amount of times since they’d arrived that he had closed his eyes and breathed in with gratitude whenever the wind blew.
The almost colonial atmosphere of Syrtis Major made him feel part of the British Empire, safe. No matter how illusory, the feeling was hard to shake. He’d grown up believing in Queen and Country, and God. How swiftly so much had changed.
Every man and woman experienced turning points. Was Nathaniel’s when Edwin died? When his wrist became damaged? When he’d been arrested? When Annabelle had lost a leg?
Annabelle had the spirit to survive such an ordeal, to make the best of a bad situation, and overcome the impairment, but she saw it as just that and it was difficult to argue when she wasn’t altogether wrong. No one chose to lose a limb, even if one had the strength to surpass the loss. Mars had to bring…certain memories to the fore.
Despite the loose line of Annabelle’s shoulders as she stood admiring the view, he couldn�
�t help wondering what she was thinking. True, even such vistas as those afforded from Sir Henry Routledge’s office were agreeable as opposed to the blackness of space, so perhaps, for now, her mind could dwell on other things other than recollections made understandably worse by a return to Mars, but he doubted it.
Nathaniel almost expected the flavour of the tea to turn bitter as his thoughts, but it did not, remaining flavoursome, almost mockingly refreshing.
He became aware of Sir Henry clearing his throat as appeared to be his wont…especially when about to mention something impolitic.
“There is…um…something I very much want to discuss. Your being here is somewhat timely. I’ve a task to ask of you.”
Nathaniel almost turned his head to say, “Of course, anything you need,” when he realised in all likelihood, Sir Henry addressed Folkard.
Nathaniel’s initial view of Sir Henry was that he was blustering, something of a caricature of the type of consummate leadership one expected to find in the Royal Navy. However, even after so short a time, Nathaniel now saw him as more than competent, proficient and effective in his duties. Whether that was a good thing lay open to debate anywhere but in the man’s office, under his observation. Just as well he’d not offered their service so readily; there was something about Sir Henry that Nathaniel found…not untrustworthy exactly, but best suited caution. Nathaniel concentrated on the decorum of cup and saucer instead.
“It’s a lengthy story, but in short I need you to take a couple of passengers to Phobos.”
Caught in the act of drinking, Nathaniel all but coughed out his tea, had to perform a quick juggling act losing all propriety, as he tried to avoid spilling or spitting out the liquid. A napkin appeared under his nose. A hand to his mouth, little droplets adhering to his palm and his lips, he angled his gaze up at Annabelle, before snatching the napkin to wipe his mouth clean in an attempt to minimise the embarrassment.
“Perhaps drink more slowly,” Annabelle suggested. A pause ensued in which he was sure everyone in the room was staring. Trust Annabelle to make a remark when she could have simply let his misfortune slide.
“Does one require…how would you say, a clobber on the back?”
Arnaud’s French accent drew out the word clobber so that it purred. If the comment hadn’t compounded the awkward moment, Nathaniel might have asked for just that. Or possibly a soothing rub. Shaking off the thought, he shook his head.
“Was it something I said, Professor?”
He’d hoped Routledge wouldn’t comment, and he didn’t sound happy. To Nathaniel’s surprise, Annabelle covered for him.
“Not at all. I’m afraid we have almost run out of tea, Sir Henry. Professor Stone’s enthusiasm causing him to drink too fast is understandable.”
Routledge knew Folkard so the business of their secret identities was somewhat negated in his presence.
“Really? That will never do.”
“It is on our inventory for re-supply,” Folkard said, his tone so deadpan Nathaniel could neither tell whether he was disinterested or amused.
“And we shall see that you get it!” Routledge declared as if announcing war on the loss of leaf infusions. “And we’ll make sure you have some of the decent stuff. Can’t have you out there in the aether without…”
Routledge’s voice disassembled into a sound like someone talking with a mouth full of spun cotton. Tuning him out and uncertain whether to feel grateful for Annabelle’s intervention or annoyed, Nathaniel gave a noncommittal nod, gaze latching on to Annabelle’s as she regarded him. Once, he would have counted on her mirth; now, she looked tired. They were all tired, physically to be sure, but emotionally as well. None were the same as when first they had met. He’d like to say their evolution was complete, but their journey into the unknown had only just begun.
“Now my task…my um…favour…”
No matter how he felt towards Routledge, they didn’t need further complications. To be doing favours at every port of call… It lay on the tip of his tongue to remind Sir Henry they were on a mission, when Folkard beat him to it.
“I appreciate that, old boy, and I wouldn’t usually ask, but a member of the realm has found himself in a spot of bother.”
“Really, Sir Henry?” Annabelle sat down.
“Nothing to trouble your head with, my dear.”
“Then I am surprised any of us should trouble our heads at all.”
There existed a moment where Routledge made several peculiar noises that made Nathaniel think maybe his tea had gone down the wrong way. Just short of huffing, Routledge continued. “It would seem a man has gone missing and as far as our intelligence can ascertain he was last seen hiring a transport to Phobos.”
“Phobos?” Annabelle’s voice rang out. “You mean the moon? Why would anyone want to go there?”
“One might have once said the same of Luna,” Folkard murmured, which caused Annabelle to look down. Her lips compressed. Folkard had missed that her words were intended to incite Routledge, and not to dismiss the possibility that they should help.
“He has not been heard from since?”
“No, Captain Folkard.”
“Then whatever his reasons for going there, I suggest that one must consider the worse has happened.”
“Indeed,” Nathaniel concurred. “Especially as the chances of him actually finding some way to land are unlikely.”
“Quite so, quite so, but one must look to all possibilities. Either the man must be found alive and well, or we need to locate his corpse. Um…I mean…forgive me, my dear Miss Somerset.” Sir Henry spared her a nod before speaking again to Folkard. “We need to locate the unfortunate soul and lay him to rest.”
“We must?” Nathaniel posed.
Clearing his throat, Sir Henry seemed at a loss.
“Forgive us.” Folkard’s tone softened, maybe as a way to lessen Nathaniel’s interruption and placate the man. “We are all exhausted and as I have pointed out, we already have a task to resolve. Obviously, there must be more to this disappearance or I am sure you would not waste our time.”
“I would not waste your time at all. A man has gone missing. A fine young fellow. I knew his father back at…” Sir Henry coughed, possibly realising that personal connections were by no means the best way to convince an enervated crew. “This is a matter of loyalty. We are in Her Majesty’s service. A member of aristocracy has gone missing and others are seeking our help!”
“That’s as may be, Sir Henry, but we are also under the charge of the empire.” Folkard broke off so abruptly, he drew all gazes in the room. A frown crossed his face. He turned his head, swayed.
“I say, old chap,” Routledge began, and Nathaniel was about to ask whether Folkard felt unwell when the man straightened and strode to the window.
Gazing up into the sky for some moments, he said, “Phobos, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me more.”
“The man in question is one Henry Barnsdale-Stevens.”
The way Sir Henry spoke made Nathaniel wonder whether the name was a matter of coincidence, or someone had called the missing chap after the governor at birth. That would explain Sir Henry’s immoderate interest.
“He…stopped by to see me and I learned of his intention to investigate Phobos. Indeed,” Sir Henry cleared his throat again, “he sought my advice and help, but I…I refused.” A hint of shame and sadness crept into the governor’s voice. “I told him I’m of a mind to agree with those who liken Phobos to a diseased potato. He would not listen. Said that he had to check it out on behalf of his soon-to-be brother-in-law. That he’d promised, and family being family and all that… Well, I-I understood, but I couldn’t just give him a flyer and service men to go off on some wild… Er…that is…um…”
“The wild goose is cooked,” Arnaud remarked, speaking quietly, but it was a miracle if Routledge didn’t hear.
“I thought his insistence was bravado or an act of persuasion. I should have realised. An
adventurous spirit has our Henry. Had I fathomed his intention I would have detained him for his own good.”
“Why did he need to check out Phobos for his brother-in-law or otherwise?” Nathaniel enquired.
“Hmm…some nonsense about a land purchase that I found dubious, but the point is I am responsible. I refused to help, and now this dear fellow has gone missing. I believed that some of these damnable Martians had something to do with it, especially as they harbour certain superstitions regarding the moon, but after investigation, Highmore assures me.”
“Highmore?” This time Nathaniel rudely broke in.
“Y-yes.” It sounded as if Routledge didn’t want to confess that, and well he should.
“I take it he is one of the would-be passengers.”
“You have heard of him?”
Turning his gaze to Folkard rather than look at Routledge’s florid face, Nathaniel nodded. “His family are…well-to-do.”
“Well-to-do, indeed. I should say so, but wealth isn’t everything. It’s breeding that…” Again, Sir Henry stopped. “Forgive me. I am unused to speaking with one of the feminine persuasion in the room. I continue to forget myself.”
“That you do, Sir Henry, not that I will fall apart at a mere breath of coarse language or of a disagreeable subject, I assure you.” Annabelle reached out, rapping her false leg with her knuckles.
If Sir Henry were to grow more rubicund, they might have to resuscitate him. To add to the man’s discomfort, Nathaniel said, “Let us just say The Honourable Joseph Highmore’s reputation does not live up to the title and leave it at that.”
“I am aware that some might not look upon the younger Highmore as the epitome of British aristocracy, but such is the foolishness of youth.” Sir Henry conveniently seemed to forget that Highmore was older than many of those sitting in the room. “Henry’s friend and fiancée are both here to.”
“Fiancée?” Annabelle’s voice rang out bringing Sir Henry to yet another stuttering halt.
“She is…here,” he admitted. “When Highmore went off in pursuit of Henry’s trail I could not allow the young lady to attend, and, fortunately, Highmore agreed. However, I have been less successful in convincing them that she should not accompany this expedition.”
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